


Heart and Soul

by fyredancer



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyredancer/pseuds/fyredancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill wants Tom to play him a song, and so he offers a deal. Of course, winning isn't necessarily the most important thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart and Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for steinsgrrl. Many thanks to yougetajob for the super-fast beta ♥ and to Leighface for the amazing banner which made me squeak happily upon arrival.

[ ](http://s3.photobucket.com/albums/y67/Fyredancer0/Twin%20Picspam/?action=view&current=heartandsoul.png)

Tom comes out onto the patio when the scent of dawn is in the air. The sky thins to paling grey in the distance where the sun will rise, a little later on. It won't be long now, judging by the watery dreamlike quality of the light that is beginning to seep through the layer of clouds wrapping the horizon, providing more than the throwback of the moon's reflected brilliance. They've been up all night as usual, working on tracks until Bill has grown a little hoarse and goes for a water as Tom steps out for a smoke.

It's just the two of them in their home studio, and it has been for hours. Tom likes Georg and Gustav; they're nice guys, easygoing and tolerant, but sometimes they get in the way.

Then again, the same thing could be said, at times, of _everyone_ else.

The door slides on its tread a bit, enough to crack open, and Tom turns to meet the mirror of his own honey-brown eyes.

"Hey," Bill says, nonchalant, greeting him as though they've spent more than a mere handful of idle minutes apart.

The barest hint of a smile tugs Tom's lips, and he lifts his chin in response. He leans back against the railing on his elbows as he waits for Bill to decide if he's in or out.

"It's so quiet," Bill marvels.

"It's about four a.m.," Tom replies with a laugh.

"I like it," Bill decides, as though this is fresh and new. He slides the door open wider, still leaning on it, one foot on the threshold.

Tom waits, letting the ash of his cigarette burn down to the filter. He watches as a stray puff of wind steals the dead embers.

"When it's just us," Bill continues, tipping his head down to give Tom a particular look from beneath his lashes. He waves a hand, wafting lingering smoke aside as he says, "Other people are okay, but they crowd us sometimes."

Tom raises his brows, amused. "Are we done for the night?"

Bill gets that sweetly shifty look on his face when he's determined to get his way, as though he hasn't yet realized there's no chance Tom will turn him down. "Well, it depends on what you mean by _done_..." he begins, and lures Tom inside with one crooked finger.

Tom tosses his spent filter and shuts the door behind them, locks it automatically and draws the curtains shut for good measure. He's not sure what Bill has in mind, but he's hoping it's naughty. He'd had Bill that morning – technically the day before, when they'd woken around two in the afternoon – but he was, as Bill accused him, in perpetual motion. He could go for it at the slightest provocation, or none. It was handy when they got few enough safe chances on tour or promo, and thank God Bill had the same drive.

"I want you to play something for me," Bill says over his shoulder, as they head back into the studio.

"Really? But I thought..."

"Oh, you're not wrong," Bill interrupts, turning and poking his tongue out, running the bar of his tongue stud around the edge of his teeth in a deliciously limber display.

Tom's hot now, overheated with that one little act even though they keep the studio cool, and he shrugs out of his hoodie and tosses it toward a random chair. "So what did you have in mind?"

"A deal," Bill says, trailing his hand along the closed surface of the piano tucked in the corner.

Tom raises his brows. He can get pretty much what he wants from Bill, and do the rest for himself, so whatever Bill thinks he may have to offer beyond the norm is usually intriguing.

"I know you're not thrilled about my appointment at the hair salon tomorrow," Bill says, and tucks his barbell to the outer side of his teeth as though expecting Tom to contradict.

Tom doesn't, because although he's pretty sure Bill can rock any hairstyle he wants, and neither of them have room to be judgmental on the hair front, he's gotten used to the flowing black and silver dreadlocks. It takes Tom a bit to adjust to a change in something so central to his life, when everything around him is always changing otherwise.

"So I want you to play 'Zoom' for me, all the way, no mistakes," Bill continues. He seats himself on the piano bench, knees pressed demurely together. "And I'll reconsider getting it cut."

"You won't get it cut?" Tom tries to pin him down.

Bill quirks that one brow at him. "I'll _reconsider_ ," he emphasizes. "It's my hair, Tomi. You have to trust me with it."

"I know," Tom caves, fingers going up to his own thin black braids, tugging. He's still not used to them; half the time he expects to find a stray dreadlock to toy with. He grins. "So all I have to do is play 'Zoom' all the way through, huh?" He flexes his fingers; he's already looking forward to this. He may not be excellent on the piano but he's steady. And the song is a slow one.

Bill nods, then swings his legs around until he's facing the shuttered keyboard. He slips down to the far side of the bench and gets on his knees on the hardwood floor, back pressed against the underside of the piano, bracing his hands on the wooden seat. He pats it once, twice; invitation for Tom to sit there, while Bill is arrayed thus.

Tom's mouth is abruptly dry; or at least, he's very aware of a distinct lack of moisture right then.

"Without a single mistake," Bill repeats, and that devious grin is back.

"That's not fair," Tom says hoarsely.

Bill's lower lip is fuller, pushing out slightly. "You won't even try, for me?"

"I didn't say that," Tom replies. He has to close his eyes for a second; he's already tingling, and his dick is very much into the way Bill's positioned so suggestively beneath the piano. His spine forms a sinuous curve, and the line of his neck is the most elegant thing Tom's ever seen. If he were to look down and see what Bill is smirking at, he'd probably see exactly how excited he is right now. He takes a deep breath, then says, "Okay."

As if there were ever a question about it, or a choice.

He's barely seated on the piano bench before slim fine-fingered hands are reaching for his zip. "Wait," Tom says, fussing but not wanting to go so far as to bat Bill's eager hands away. His cock is straining against the fabric already, as though yearning for that touch. He looks down into Bill's sloe-dark eyes as he settles on the bench, then cups Bill's cheek in one hand, rubbing his thumb along the prominence of bone. He says 'I love you,' and 'want you so bad' and 'you're incredibly sexy' with that caress, and the brilliance of Bill's smile acknowledges the unsaid endearments.

He takes another breath, folds the cover over and back, and poises his hands over the keyboard. "Shit," he says softly under his breath, attention drawn even before he's started to Bill's head in his lap, all attentive eyes and beside his poised mouth, the long fingers snared at the groin of Tom's jeans.

"Pretend I'm not here," Bill tells him helpfully, and drags the zip down.

"Fuck," Tom groans, and he starts to play.

Bill tugs him free of jeans and boxers with the finesse of one hand. Tom's cock is all too cooperative, basically leaping free into Bill's waiting fingers.

Tom spans his hands over the keys, slow and deliberate although his breathing has roughened, sped up. Is Bill going to...? Hot breath stirs the tip of his dick and it's a mental struggle to remember the next chord, let alone play it. He's rehearsed this one a lot lately, though, and he wrings the next few chords out with something like pride.

Bill's tongue swipes over the head of his dick and Tom inhales sharply.

He manages, somehow. He balances the sensations Bill is coaxing from his cock with those first teasing licks, then the broad flat of his tongue plying around the tip and pushing the foreskin down, with the chords that he works with agonizing precision from his fingers. The two sensations are blending together into his cortex now; this music, Bill's mouth, letting him know he'll never be able to play this song again without at least an echo of the hard-on that Bill is drawing delicate nails down.

Tom bites his lip to stifle a moan and works over the keys as though his life depends on it. The tune is melancholy, longing. It's a huge contradiction to what's going on between his legs right now, and yet it's all tied together. This love is an ache inside, beyond compulsion. The bittersweet gush of the song flows back and forth through them; throbs between his legs. Bill is drawing him down into the heat of his mouth and stroking him to the pace of Tom's leisurely but steady fingering of the keys and this is the tune to which their love is struck.

The soft wet noises around his dick are driving him crazy. He's harder, trying not to push his hips forward and force himself down Bill's throat because it will fuck with the rhythm he's trying to maintain. Not to mention, it would choke his beloved infuriating little brother. At this moment his instincts are warring between pressing the keys beneath his fingertips with every hard-earned note, and reaching down to slide his fingers into the grown-out hair that frames Bill's temples and massage there just so, as Bill sucks him in and rolls him over his tongue.

 _Bill._ He can't even look at the keys. He'll see Bill below, soft dark lashes and the way his mouth works over Tom, and it will be his undoing as usual. He fixes his gaze to the piano-top and screws his tongue into the ring piercing his lip and goes with the next phrase running on pure instinct. Bill's mouth is hot and liquid on his cock, giving him so much more pleasure than what's obvious. Bill begins to hum in harmony where his mouth is stretched so loving and exquisite around Tom's shaft.

Tom groans and his fingers falter. He strikes a sour note and he can feel Bill's lips twitch around him, wanting to smile. Instead of pulling off, Bill sucks him deeper, one hand twisting around the base of Tom's cock, and Tom knows what his twin is urging. _Finish, it doesn't matter if you lost._ Tom nods and opens his eyes, bracing his fingers wide. He goes on, and on.

Bill's eyes glimmer up at him and Tom keeps playing, slow love notes that repeat and float away from them even as the music wraps around them. Their eyes meet and Bill's expression is all lazy pleasure, the bump and press of his tongue stud along the underside of Tom's cock thrilling clear through Tom. He's tightening with a gasp, he can't even warn Bill; he's coming in a quick gush and Bill's mouth sends a small surprised whimper vibrating through Tom's dick as he convulses between the plush glide of Bill's lips. The sudden keyboard mash is an accent to his fierce appreciation.

"Oh, God," he groans, and Bill is imbibing what he's given him with a concentrated expression, cleaning up with thorough caressing strokes of his tongue. Tom splays his fingers out and finds the next note, and the one after. It's their love, strung out for the world to hear and transform into something that resonates for each listener, a piece of their own heart and soul. It's the love that lasts forever.

Tom finishes the last wavering note and holds it with an ache in his chest that eclipses the warm satisfaction at his groin. He pushes the piano bench back and leans on his hands, waiting with an expectant little smirk as Bill climbs from beneath the piano, slinging himself over Tom's thighs and hooking his hands at the nape of Tom's neck. Bill's cock is bumping Tom's belly through his thin track pants and Tom's shirt.

"You want me to take care of that?" Tom whispers against the corner of Bill's mouth as he leans in for a kiss.

Bill shakes his head, pressing his full mouth to Tom's. He rubs softly against Tom's lips until they open, then his tongue swipes in, stud clinking past Tom's teeth to share the flavor. Their noses wrinkle simultaneously and then they're kissing, soft unhurried laps, the leisurely kisses they share at four a.m. when the rest of their world is asleep and everything before true dawn is their shield. Tom curves a hand over Bill's waist and rubs his back, accepting Bill's tongue. Their lips join and part and meet again, and Bill's tongue curls around his like it wants to stay there. It's gentle but hot, so warm and thorough, and Bill kisses like Tom could go again, if he wants.

"You're still..." Tom begins, when Bill pulls his mouth away at last, giving Tom a not so secretive smile and ducking against his neck to taste the skin there.

"When we get home," Bill replies. "What I have in mind needs a bed, not a bench."

"Oh?" Tom returns, arching a brow. He knows he could pick Bill up and tip him over the piano; Bill would struggle, but they'd both end up enjoying it. The bed is so much softer, though, and Tom doesn't fancy scrubbing come-stains off his piano.

"Yeah." Bill flicks his tongue against Tom's lip-ring and bumps their foreheads together. "So let's go home."

 _We are home,_ Tom wants to say, because wherever Bill is, that's all he needs. He keeps a lid on those particularly sappy thoughts because somehow they transmit through clearly anyhow, and Bill is giving him a knowing little grin.

"What?" he says instead, and ducks away when Bill moves to plant one on his ear.

"Nothing," Bill says, shaking his head, then he sticks out his tongue anyhow and says triumphantly, "I won."

"Oh, fuck you..." Tom groans, standing and dumping Bill off his lap.

"Maybe later," Bill says with a saucy eyebrow lift. "If you're good."

Now Tom can only smirk incredulously. Shoulder to shoulder, they move to leave the studio and Tom tugs at the ends of Bill's silvery-white dreadlocks. "So all of this is going?"

"Yeah," Bill replies. He bumps his hip against Tom. "It's okay, you'll like it."

 _It's still you,_ is what Tom doesn't say, and doesn't need to. Their lips twitch in unison. He'll pout for a bit; he always does, but he always ends up ultimately liking whatever Bill has changed. Bill's got him, after all; he's snared him, with every breath he takes.


End file.
